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Night Vision
That piercing gaze that unlocks the shadows
Back alleys could never before house a shooting star
White claws rip vantablack fabric, shred oxymoronic veneer.
Turning tiny spirals in a forward motion, the shrivelled fellow trods on
Through abandoned cobblestone streets
White vacancies scanning those empty mouths of vitality
And upon seeing nothing, he runs.
Tightening spiral, he returns in the day
Intangible hands running rough over clay
Sets down his baggage, takes out his lunch
And sighs, as if he could pray
Bobbing heads in the fray would think not.
Comfort of corners dissolved by bright rays
That tempt him away in the dark
Night vision might cure his desultory haze
But for now, he just laughs in the park.
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